Crossing Over
by poufellyanah
Summary: On Halloween 1981, Voldemort wakes up as a horcrux in Harry's body. Desperate, he decides to merge his own soul piece with the toddler's. His actions involuntarily land him on the other side of the prophecy... in the role of Harry Potter.
1. Prologue

Disclaimer: Harry Potter belongs to J.K. Rowling. I claim ownership of nothing but ideas and plots that are not mentioned in her works.

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**Crossing Over**

_**(Written by pouf with suggestions from ellyanah)**_

**...**

**Prologue**

_**October 31, 1981**_

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Voldemort wakes to a blinding headache, and he has a strong suspicion that the pain has something to do with his last memory. He remembers the Potter infant, his own voice as he casts the killing curse, and then his surprise when the green beam of light somehow rebounds off the brat's forehead and hits him directly in the chest. From this, he concludes that he should be dead by his own curse, and that he is in a condition that is only slightly preferable, because he is most definitely no longer in his body.

He panics. That angers him. Voldemort does not like to feel fear.

His migraine peaks and grounds his thoughts for a while. He evaluates the situation. His peaking migraine grounded his jumbled thoughts long enough for him to evaluate the situation. He is perplexed. He expected that he would be reduced to a wraith in the event of his 'death' because of his horcruxes, but that is apparently not the case. He is… in a cage?

He feels rage: rage, rage, endless rage. He is ready to torture and kill whoever _dared _imprison him, Lord Voldemort.

He is startled out of his tumult by a loud shrieking wail. For a moment, he draws a blank, but then he thinks a name. _Potter? _He reminds himself that the killing curse has rebounded, so it is conceivable that the child is still alive. But Voldemort realizes that the wail is too close to be Potter, because it is almost as if it comes from... the cage itself?

He is confused. He does not like being ignorant. It makes him angry, because ignorance makes people powerless and weak, and he views it as the worst possible thing other than death. He determines to resolve the ignorance issue immediately.

He examines his noisy entrapment. It is warm, soft, and panicky. The last observation stops him: emotion from an object? The situation is getting too far out of hand. He is relieved to find that there seem to be orifices to the outside world—a world that is blurred and disproportionately tall. His relief fades. He sees the mudblood woman's corpse lying not too far away from empty robes and—is that _his _wand? The wail grows louder, and he finally notices bars and blankets around him.

The realization sets in with a frigid, sinking calm.

He is in the brat's body. The only way it can have happened, short of accidental possession while in wraith form (which is sadly not the case, because he can't for the life of him move any part of his prison-body), is if his consciousness is a horcrux—a horcrux that is trapped in the body of a very much _living _Potter.

It is preposterous. Lord Voldemort does _not _throw ineffective curses, nor does he fail to kill mere infants—and he most certainly does _not _make a mess of his horcrux rituals only to end up a powerless entity sealed off in said infants.

He cannot _possibly _allow himself to remain in the humiliating situation, and that is why he extends his awareness within the cage to search for Potter's soul. If he is lucky, it will be weak and easily pushed out of the body.

As it turns out, he does not have any luck after all.

Like everything that night, things go wrong. He does not find what he is looking for. He is horrified to find that the brat's soul is quite solidly attached to its body. Not only is it frighteningly bright, it is also protected by an odd shield—is that _love _it is made of?—that seems to harbour some very hostile intentions toward Voldemort.

He tries to reach for the soul; the shield blocks him. He tries to push the soul away; the shield merrily shines brighter. He tries to steal energy from the body to throw it at the shield to see if it might be destroyed; it remains unaffected. He tries lashing out with the strongest, most destructive legilimency attack he can muster; the stubborn, godforsaken shield still holds.

The arrogant mudblood has seemingly set up an infallible protection against his efforts. It is impossible to outright oust the brat.

He wonders if perhaps there is another way. He certainly is not going to give up: he is going to get the situation under control no matter what it takes. Ideas fly madly through his mind. Each is examined and rejected in a flurry of angry thoughts… until one of them—a word, really—causes the hubbub to quiet.

Merge.

He does not like the idea, but knows that it is the only possibility. Unless, of course, he is inclined to be imprisoned until his original self kills Potter and unknowingly destroys him in the process.

It will work. His consciousness is, after all, only a very small piece of soul. It will not take much to merge it with the still-developing soul of the infant. The shield will probably not protest: he will not be harming Potter—in fact, he is going to strengthen him, because Voldemort's own magic will combine with the brat's, and he will still have all of his memories. He hopes the shield will interpret the knowledge as an extra protection from magical attacks rather than a nefarious influence on Potter's disgustingly _innocent _mind. Voldemort will, of course, be getting what he wants: a body, with the additional bonus of a much larger magical core. In a word, power.

He refuses to even consider the possibility that merging his small soul sliver with a complete one might change him in any way. He is, after all, Lord Voldemort: surely he can overpower any influence of the brat's soul. So it is without any hesitation that he draws nearer to the glowing orb and its shield. He makes sure to keep his intention to merge without harming Potter in the forefront of his mind. The shield does not attack or repel him. He edges closer and closer, until he feels Potter's foreign presence curiously prodding back at him—and then the child's soul is both around his own and inside it, and it is stifling, and he hopes the unpleasant brat is suffering more than he is, and—and he is Harry, no, Potter—he is Lord Voldemort, not some helpless child!—it is overwhelming, and he no longer knows who he is—oh, but he resists, long after he forgets what he is fighting—and then Harry and Voldemort black out for a hardly noticeable second, and when they wake… they are no longer two entities.

A quick examination confirms to the consciousness that it is in Harry Potter's body. Only, it does not know its identity: it is both Voldemort and Harry, and neither. Voldemort-who-isn't-quite-Voldemort-anymore decides that he will most definitely never go _anywhere_ near soul magic again. His current predicament is complete and utter chaos, and he does not like it. He is both the malevolent culprit and the anguished witness of his parents'murder—it is utterly confusing, and he hates it. He distinctively recalls both perspectives: one gloating about the Potters' murder, the other half-aware and panicked. He will _definitely _not touch soul magic again.

He hopes that, once he manages to sort through the current pandemonium in his mind (he finds out the hard way that mixing an adult's mind with an infant's within a one-year-old body is not a good idea), having a complete soul will make him sane enough to permanently stay away from the current bane of his existence.

And so, Voldemort/Harry, still wrestling with his identity and trapped in his crib until someone sees fit to release him, attempts to bring his fingers to his temples to relieve his growing migraine. Only, he finds that his infant body lacks basic motor control. Instead of the desired effect, an exaggerated muscle spasm sends one of his arms flying into the crib's banister, and his fist slamming painfully into his nose. Abject frustration and wild disbelief fuel the stream of profanities running in his thoughts.

For the second time that night, his emotions are cut off by a loud cry. Well, well, well. It appears that a very devastated person has finally stumbled upon the scene. At least, whoever it is—luckily, probably not the old coot, as he wouldn't have such an exuberant reaction and is more likely to send a sycophant anyway—will not be trying to kill him. Hopefully, if this person is any danger to himself, he will be able to force a bout of accidental magic to defend himself…

He waits with bated breath as rushed footsteps hit the stairs and grow louder. The intruder finally runs into his room and skids to a halt before Lily Potter's body. He watches Sirius Black sink to his knees and the torrent of emotions that cross his features. The man's face is agitated, caught between rage and grief as he swears to torture and murder Pettigrew. Voldemort/Harry doesn't really pay attention to the wording.

Instead, Voldemort/Harry, once more a victim of his identity crisis, finds that he is darkly pleased by the idea of making his family's betrayer suffer. In fact, he has quite a few ideas for drawing out the rat's pain indefinitely, most of which rely on dark magic to force his would-be victim to remain alive and conscious long after the pain levels should have caused his nervous system to shut down…

It is therefore his amused and uncontrolled gurgle (he absently notes that it is a far cry from Voldemort's hysterical laughter, which actually sounded better when he heard it as Harry earlier than when he heard it from Voldemort's body) that finally draws Black's attention to him.

He is engulfed in shaking arms before he even processes Black's movement toward him. He is being _hugged_. And—for Salazar's sake, _why?_—_cried on_. Lovely. It is almost worth it to say something silly in parseltongue to make his torturer let go of him and end this farce. But if he is to judge the affectionate monster a priori… the Black family doesn't exactly breed in favour of quintessential sanity, and distraught men who have just lost their best friend and been betrayed by a close friend can't possibly be stable. Parseltongue is not a good idea. The man would probably think him possessed (not _entirely_ false), an imposter (again, not entirely false), or a dark wizard (not false at all). Either way, Voldemort/Harry is likely to be an accidental casualty of Black's insanity if he even so much as hisses a single word.

As he reaches these conclusions, Black seems to regain some sense; he begins to look around frantically, muttering a string of incoherent nonsense about secret keepers, traitors, and guardians. Really, for a pureblood from a Dark family, it is almost insulting that Black doesn't even have enough of a grasp on occlumency to lucidly organize his thoughts. At this rate, the idiot is going to hunt down little weak Pettigrew while everyone thinks _he_ has betrayed the Potters. The endeavour is almost sure to end in disaster. Well, no matter. He _is_ a blood traitor, an irresponsible one without any sense of self-preservation. Voldemort/Harry inwardly scoffs. Black is as foolishly Gryffindor as they come.

He wishes he was in better company.

His wistful hopes meet an abrupt demise when _worse_ company comes along: Rubeus Hagrid. Of course, he hears him lumbering around like a great big oaf before he sees the half-giant, but it is his words that finally make Voldemort/Harry realize that he is not yet out of the proverbial woods even if the 'soul situation' is no longer an immediate concern.

"Er, Sirius—look, yer goin' ter have ter hand 'Arry there ter me, yeh see," here, his chest puffs out in pride, "Dumbledore sent me ter get 'im, I'm s'posed ter bring 'im, fer safety I mean, yeh understand."

The barmy old coot! The nerve of him! Sending an incompetent, uneducated half-giant to handle a _toddler_! And Hagrid, barging in like that and demanding things… why, has he no sense of tact?

Thankfully, Black appears to share Voldemort/Harry's opinion. At the very least, he seems reluctant to release him to Hagrid's _tender_ care; his arms stiffen around him. Voldemort/Harry takes the moment of hesitation as his cue to make sure that he stays with Black—definitely the lesser evil—and draws on the trauma of the evening to push a loud and distressed wail as he tightens his grip on Black's jacket. He even burrows his face into the man's chest for effect. There; that should be enough of a hint.

Miraculously, his act works; it favourably tips the balance in Black's struggle to decide between Harry and Pettigrew.

"Well, he's safe with me," Voldemort/Harry inwardly cheers as Black speaks, "Dumbledore probably just thought that Harry was alone in here." Not a particularly coherent explanation, let alone for someone like Hagrid, but he can't expect much out of a mentally unstable wizard. Once again, sheer luck seems to be on his side; the half-giant actually accepts the flimsy argument!

"Yer prob'ly right," a tear slides down his face—has he no pride?—as he continues, "but don't yeh think yeh ought ter bring 'im somewhere else?" His query is met with silence; it is quite clear that Black is still disoriented. Voldemort/Harry hears Hagrid shuffle his feet when the other man's silence grows long.

Finally, Black gathers his dismal wits and hoarsely lets out a whisper, "I… I don't know what to do."

"Dumbledore would know what ter do," Hagrid mumbles under his breath before addressing Black, "We could always bring 'Arry to Dumbledore, he'd know."

A quick glance at Black's face, disguised within a particularly exaggerated gasped sob, reveals that he is actually considering Hagrid's idea.

Voldemort/Harry does not like where this is going.

Where is Severus with his acerbic tongue when you need him to ward off floundering idiots? He toys with the idea of using the imperius curse on one of the imbeciles. He looks at his wand, which is still lying on the ground next to his crumpled robes, from the corner of his eye. Even if he doesn't use it right now, he can't just leave it there to be snapped or placed in a ministry exhibit. It is _his _wand and he is _tired _and sick of this idiocy, and he _needs_ it and—the yew wand flies into his clumsy hand. Aghast at his burst of accidental magic, Voldemort/Harry abruptly whirls his head around to see if it has been noticed. Apparently not; the two men are still discussing what to do. Presently, Black is back to being hesitant, and Hagrid is still singing his cherished headmaster's praises. Good; they are not watching him. He once again turns his attention to the wand. He needs to keep it safe in one way or another. He can't exactly crawl or apparate away to find a hiding spot for the wand while he is 'supervised' by these two, but neither can he openly keep it. The entertainment of seeing the Light wizards' reactions if they find Harry Potter 'playing' with a Dark Lord's wand isn't worth losing it to them.

Before he can reach a decision, a voice he could have picked out among thousands interrupts Black and Hagrid. "Gentlemen," its owner points his wand at Black with a stern face, "I'm terribly sorry to put an end to a discussion which I'm certain is delightful, but I believe we have more pressing matters to attend to." Dumbledore. Why is he not surprised? _Everything _in the last few hours has gone spectacularly down the drain, so of course the manipulative, meddlesome old fool shows up.

With Dumbledore's sudden appearance and frosty tone of voice, Voldemort/Harry freezes right along with Black and Hagrid. He can just imagine what they look like to the old fool; a criminal holding an innocent child hostage in an attempt to manipulate a poor, gentle half-giant. He gurgles in amusement at the completely erroneous interpretation (after all, _he_ is the criminal, Black is the innocent in need of help, and Hagrid is doing the persuasion). He curses his lack of motor control as his giggle causes him to accidentally wave his wand, which creates a shower of green sparks.

Dumbledore's piercing eyes dart down from Black's face to Voldemort/Harry. With a sinking feeling, he realizes that the blue orbs are far from twinkling. He believes he is doomed. In an instant, he feels his blood rush from his face—Dumbledore is going to figure it all out, he always does, he _knows…_ His panic brings about the recollection that his nerves have not felt this frayed since the day he inadvertently looked into his basilisk's bulbous eyes _before_ he had created horcruxes, only to realize, after practically feeling his heart stop out of fear, that the great serpent can control its gaze and that it would never harm a descendent of Salazar Slytherin.

And then the moment ends. Dumbledore's eyes snap away from him to focus on Black. Voldemort/Harry's attention comes back to the present and he recalls that, to the world, he is Harry Potter, a toddler. Not Tom Riddle. Of course, Dumbledore will not suspect him. Though he is currently helpless, as he had been at the time of that incident with the basilisk, Dumbledore would never consider harming Harry Potter. He probably thinks that Black had taken the wand first and that he merely grasped it as a toy. He is safe. Voldemort/Harry lets out a calming breath.

"Mr. Black, I believe it would be in your best interest to relinquish your hold on young Harry," the headmaster's voice has grown even colder. Apparently, Dumbledore does not agree with Voldemort/Harry's latest assessment of his own safety.

"But—wand—what? No, no, the _rat_, we have to…" Understanding finally dawns upon Black's face when he trails off; he realizes that the headmaster thinks him guilty.

Dumbledore, either not noticing the change or unaware of its true meaning, insists: "I will not repeat myself, Mr. Black."

Hagrid is ignored when he enquires, "Dumbledore? Wha's goin' on?"

"Professor," Black grows even more agitated, eyes wild and voice urgent, "You don't understand, I—"

He is cut off by Dumbledore's disarming spell. Black's wand flies out of his back pocket, but Voldemort's wand curiously stays in Harry's grasp, unaffected but for a slight glow. Voldemort/Harry realizes that he has yet again had a bout of accidental magic. Twice in just a few minutes is a bit much. Surely, Voldemort's control over his power can't have been shattered by the addition of Harry's still immature magic… He stores the odd happenstance in a corner of his mind for later consideration: the situation with Dumbledore is still not resolved.

"Wha…? Wait!" The poor man is even more confused, but Dumbledore does not give him time to recover as he immediately attemps to summon Harry out of his grasp. Voldemort/Harry's magic has apparently not yet calmed down, and it seems that he implicitly considers Black the lesser evil; though he gives a startled yelp when he feels the tug of the _accio_, it is dispelled instants later. This constant accidental magic is beginning to annoy him; he _hates_ losing control. Truth be told, he is even starting to feel a little light-headed from the power rush. Bodies as young as this are not meant to act as conduits for much magic at all. He is going to end up knocking himself out if he isn't able to reign in his magic soon; already, he can feel his fingers weakening around his wand. That is unacceptable. Voldemort/Harry quickly allows his body to go limp in order to gather his strength in his hand, and tightens his hold on his wand. He is not going to let it slip out of his grasp to be picked up by _Dumbledore_ of all people.

The older wizard appears as stunned by his repeated resistance to spells as Voldemort/Harry was. Fortunately, his shock gives Black enough time to get frustrated enough to blurt out a rather crucial piece of information.

"Would you just _listen_?! I wasn't the secret keeper! I was a decoy for Peter!"

_Finally_. Voldemort/Harry can practically see the highly entertaining 'Oh' of surprise on Dumbledore's face as he slightly lowers his wand, though he keeps it aimed in Black's direction. Well, at least that makes _one_ half-resolved problem…

Or perhaps not.

"I find it curious, then, that you knew to come here at this time, Mr. Black, and that no one at all was informed of the change," Dumbledore has swivelled his wand back into an offensive position, "Surely, if everyone thought you the secret keeper, it would have occurred to you that you would be blamed if the Potters were betrayed. It hardly seems logical that nothing could indicate your innocence."

Dumbledore is such an exasperating, stubborn old man. To start using logic _now_ of all times?! Whenever it is needed (Voldemort/Harry can personally attest to the case of the chamber of secrets), the professor displays a startling lack of forethought and bleats along with the other trusting, ignorant wizard sheep—and when he doesn't need to be suspicious, the old coot just goes ahead and does his best to hunt down every single possible break in logic. Voldemort/Harry sarcastically finds this to be fantastic.

"Oh for the love of—look, I was worried, alright? I wanted to check on Peter, to be sure that he was still alright, and he wasn't _there._ So how do you think I reacted, huh?! And we didn't tell you because we—just look at the rat!" Black's voice rises, "Can you honestly say you'd think him capable of what he just did? CAN YOU?! And now he's running around, and instead of going after HIM, you waste time accusing ME!" To his horror, Voldemort/Harry finds himself once again being cried on, this time out of frustration. It is mortifying.

Once more, Dumbledore slightly lowers his wand, clearly hesitant to believe Black. "Well then, dear boy," Dumbledore wearily persists, "You wouldn't object to lending the dear child to an old man until we reach the bottom of this matter?" A fossilized fool wants to protect him. He is _touched_.

"Fine," spits Black, "I'd rather hang on to _my _godson, but if that's what you want, do your thing."

And so, Dumbledore cautiously approaches Black and Voldemort/Harry. Well, he most certainly does not want to be handled by Dumbledore. It is time for an encore performance of 'Poor baby Harry doesn't want to let go of uncle Padfoot'. To think he has been reduced to this… He gives a masterful wail when Dumbledore attempts to take him from Black, and makes a show of shying away from the old man. The latter hesitates, but does not draw back.

Hagrid, who seems to have finally understood the gist of the issue, mercifully provides help. Voldemort/Harry refuses to appreciate him.

"Er, y'know, 'Arry didn't want ter let go of Sirius earlier either, wen I tried ter take 'im," he states, "Kinda reminds me of young animals, wen they're alone an' all. Want to cling to safety, they do, an' they don't want ter let go of it."

And, without further ado, in a typically light-hearted fashion, the tension wilts away. Voldemort/Harry wants to feel shocked. He truly, honestly does, because if he does not, it would be admitting that Dumbledore's behaviour is acceptable and _normal_. But it is so _Dumbledore_ that he cannot bring himself to be surprised that Hagrid's comment—hardly of relevance for an important decision—has convinced him of Black's honesty.

"Ah, you're only too right, dear boy. In dire times and circumstances, the most unconscious of intuitions tell much of the truth."

The twinkly, psychotic old goat is _insane_. Voldemort/Harry has never been so tempted to obliviate himself.

Black tiredly nods. Hagrid looks proud. Dumbledore is twinkling again. Those three look as if it were a normal evening, when Dark Lords do not vanish away and just-orphaned young boys do not survive killing curses. Speaking of which…

"Nonetheless, I fear that we have yet to fully resolve the situation," Dumbledore turns to Black, "As much as it pains me to jump to such matters, Harry will require a guardian and security arrangements as soon as possible; when news of tonight's events spread, he will become a symbol for the Light—and a target for the Dark."

Ah yes. _That_. Why, almost forgot about _that_ with the Black-Dumbledore situation. Orphaned. _Orphaned_, again. With the charming difference that, this time, it is entirely his fault. It is chilling, yet, at the same time, the thought feels like boiling water engulfing him. He thinks that perhaps he is blushing in humiliation. He could have had parents, parents that cared, and his parents weren't even two hours in the past, they'd been _there—_and now they aren't, because of _him._

He begins to think that he is going to end up at the orphanage again. It makes him panic. He would rather _anything _but the orphanage. As his dread peaks, odd, fist-sized acidic globules drip from the tip of his wand and burn small indents in the wooden floor. The display attracts the attention of the three men in the room, who have yet to emerge from the solemn silence Dumbledore's words caused.

This sobers him. No, he will not let _emotions _drive him into a corner and weaken him even further than his previous accidental magic already has. He pushes down the feelings, not bothering to consider whether the merge with Harry's soul might be the driving force behind them; that is a question to be examined later. He has to calm down. He has to remain in control. Voldemort/Harry enforces the directions in his mind. _Observe, evaluate, plan, and act_. There has to be a way not to end up at an orphanage…

"Well, it certainly seems that Harry is feeling rather magical tonight," Dumbledore meekly chuckles, "and that he has quite an attachment to Tom's wand."

Voldemort/Harry mentally groans at the headmaster's change of topic and his use of that disgustingly muggle name, but quickly refocuses his thoughts. Keeping his wand is just as important as avoiding the orphanage, and if he knows the old coot as well as he believes he does, if he is going to allow him to keep the wand, it will be on the basis of some silly idea. Perhaps another 'hint' to elicit a reaction…

"Ain!" His attempt at claiming ownership of the wand with a well-placed 'mine' comes out as a ridiculously pathetic squeal; he tries once more. "Mai—n!" Slightly more satisfactory; at least this one is comprehensible.

"He even seems to have decided that it belongs to him, correct, Harry?"

Voldemort/Harry resolves to let out a happy affirmative gurgle for the old coot. After years of being the recipient of his mistrust and dislike, it is truly bizarre to have Dumbledore so clearly besotted with him.

"But—Professor Dumbledore," Black intervenes, "You can't mean to let Harry keep that—that—_monster's_ wand!"

Voldemort/Harry's eye twitches, but he succeeds in suppressing other outward signs of his resentment.

"Indeed, I intend just that," comes the cheerful rejoinder.

The response shocks Black into an outraged silence, but apparently stirs Hagrid into action.

"But tha's You-Know-Who's!"

"Yes, yes, my boy, I'm well aware of its previous owner," Dumbledore once more answers innocently just as Black recovers.

"Then _why_ are you even suggesting to let a toddler keep it?!"

"Ah, but young man, do recall Mr. Ollivander's preferred phrase: it is the wand that chooses the wizard, and it would appear that we have before us an exemplary case of such a selection. In fact, legends of old allude to powerful wands' ownership passing from the defeated to his defeater—in this case, from Voldemort to Harry. I'm certain you were read the _Tale of the Three Brothers_ in your youth, and that you know of the legendary Elder Wand's criteria for its chosen master. I would not presume to interfere with the complexities of wandlore, my boy."

Ah, there it was, the expected silly, completely ludicrous idea concocted by Dumbledore. The arrogant old man thinks himself so omniscient that he overanalyzes everything. He probably even enjoys mystifying his audience with long-winded, obscure deductions derived from his 'great wisdom', but at least the despicable tendency is working in Voldemort/Harry's favour.

"Then you'll only give it to him when he turns eleven?"

It really is interesting, how practically every Light wizard is so subservient to the coot; his involvement in business not his own always seems to result in others relying on him to make all the decisions, even when the concerned parties clearly disagree.

"Why, Mr. Black, Mr. Potter won't know how to use it before he attends Hogwarts! I see no harm in permitting the poor child to keep it as a memento when the most he can do is throw a few sparks around," Dumbledore concludes sternly, as though he were reprimanding a wayward student.

Black looks conflicted for a moment—Voldemort/Harry thinks that he might be about to point out that acidic globs hardly count as _sparks_—but it is not long before his shoulders sagged and he visibly caves in, looking chastised.

"Fine," he sighs and pauses, "I guess I'll just… go home then. Harry doesn't seem to be hurt—other than the scar, but I don't think it's worth a visit to St. Mungo's. We'll need to get him settled in soon enough, so what do you suggest I do about security? My _dearest _mother is still at Grimmauld Place, so living there for the wards is out of the question… My apartment is protected, but…"

Voldemort/Harry is almost confused when his assumption about the orphanage is contradicted by the fact that he will apparently live with Black.

"At the risk of rubbing salt in the wound, I would suggest placing it under the Fidelius immediately; I will be the secret keeper for the location, and will not reveal it to anyone. You two will be perfectly safe for the moment. I will, of course, add wards and attempt to find more efficient ways of protecting Harry."

The conversation continues, but Voldemort/Harry is no longer paying attention; instead, he is focusing on a single fact.

He is not going to the orphanage.

He is… happy. He concludes that it must be the name of the odd feeling he has. The emotion bursts out of proportion just as his unstable magic decides to spike again. The mix overflows into his wand, and he has just enough time to curse his uncontrolled magic when he registers the formation of what might be a spherical patronus—and then the magic overuse harshly throws him into unconsciousness.


	2. The Aftermath

Disclaimer: Harry Potter belongs to J.K. Rowling. I claim ownership of nothing but ideas and plots that are not mentioned in her works.

Author's Note: I'm _really_ sorry about the delay (as you can see, my other story also took a long while to be updated). I'll do my best not to impose such a long waiting period ever again.

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**Crossing Over**

**...**

**Chapter 1**

_**The Aftermath**_

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What follows after he regains consciousness is a mess of unimaginable proportions.

At first, he is unable to think. He hardly believes that he is awake; his mind resembles the hallucinations that are characteristic of the magical coma that follows some dark rituals. His very being is a blizzard of swirling ideas and feelings, and he is constantly and painfully bombarded by his senses. The instability from the previous night is nothing compared to this.

He will later, in retrospect, surmise that maybe it was all a matter of delayed shock, or that Dumbledore found out about the merge and attempted an insanity-inducing curse, or that Black was incompetent enough to feed him one of those disgusting recreational drugs that muggles use.

He will instead conclude that the constant occlumency of Voldemort allowed him to keep a certain degree of coherency the previous night—and, in his unconsciousness, he had been unable to keep up the barriers and thus forcefully acquainted with the wonders (not) of having a single mind with two vastly different (read: clashing) developmental levels.

As evidenced by his disordered reactions from directly after the merge (with the disastrous trio of Dumbledore, Hagrid and Black), he is indeed, at that point, in need of much mental organization. He will never deny that having the adult mind of a dark lord—memories, thoughts, and feelings that are, for all accounts and purposes, his own—while also having all the mental gaucherie, primal emotions and fuzzy awareness of an infant to claim as his own, is not exactly productive (to put it mildly).

Hence his fit of extensive synaesthesia and his general inability to deal with his own selfhood.

But he is currently aware of none of that: he has no coherence, he is sight (blurs and hues and lines) and hearing (voices and water and movement) and touch (soft and rough and warmth) and smell (morning and tears and himself) interlaced with vague impressions of memories, and all of those things at once, undistinguished.

Eventually—seconds, minutes or hours later—he grows numb to sensory input and, for lack of a choice, drifts to those scrambled impressions of souvenirs and is forcefully sucked into them. He cannot direct his attention—he is submerged in the actor of each snapshot in the tangled ribbon of his mind, he _is_ the thinker, and everything goes faster and faster as the experience of two lives leaves its trace on him.

He does not know that, right now, he is neither Tom Riddle in those memories, nor Lord Voldemort in later ones or Harry Potter in others.

* * *

_Warm times. 3 years old._

_The Others go about their business, ignoring him. He looks up at them from his short height. He does not understand their purpose or what they want, he does not understand why their lips twitch up and their mouths open (a smile, he thinks an Other called it) when they do not need to, because they are not using their mouths to talk. He does not understand. Why they 'cry', why they 'laugh', why they 'hug'—he feels none of it, not like they do, and so he never cries, never laughs, never hugs, never smiles. When the Others realize this about him, he is forgotten. One after the other, they forget and forget and forget. They do not bathe him or feed him or clothe him, not like he needs. He is hungry and afraid, most of the time. He thinks that, maybe, if he understands the Others—if he knows why they do those incomprehensible things, he will know when to do them, too, and so, one after the other, they will remember him. Like with the other children—those who smile. Tom—that is what the Others call him—needs to learn Otherness._

_He already knows that the Others treat him like a smaller Other. So he observes and learns to identify situations where smiling is good for the smaller Others—where the bigger Others will smile, too, and give the smaller Others what they want. He has already seen that the smaller Others want the bigger Others to look at them, to be theirs for just a few moments. Sometimes they will ask for toys, but Tom sees that they only do so when the bigger Others refuse to belong to the smaller Others. Smiles are exchanges, Tom learns, because Others respond to a smile with a smile. But smiles are about wanting and getting._

_Tears, too, are about getting. He watches a smaller Other whose leg is oddly bent. It is crying, but loudly. Very soon, bigger Others run to her. Tom thinks that, perhaps, tears are like smiles—but then why have two things for the same thing?—and that they are for getting attention. But then he realizes that the smaller Other cannot move on its own. The bigger Others are there to give assistance, not themselves. Tears are demands, Tom learns. But they are about needing, not wanting._

'_New Year's Eve'; 'Birthday'. 4 years old._

_The Others are being weirder than usual. When a small Other asks a bigger Other, it is told that it is 'New Year's Eve'. One of them tells Tom that this is his 'birthday'. Hugs and laughter, Tom decides, are siblings, just like smiles and tears. They are obligations that some Others have to different Others, but they come with different words. He dismisses hugs, because smaller Others with hair as short as his never do it. He only notes that hugs often come with tears, or with smiles—but hugging an Other forces them to hug back. Forced exchanges. If smiles are exchanges to get things, hugs are forced exchanges that get things, too. They have more certainty than smiles. When he focuses on laughter, Tom sees that words that exist to make an Other laugh force the listener to laugh. Giving the obligation to laugh to an Other seems to be a good thing, because Laughter when an Other does not ask for it is about leading and superiority—because when one Other laughs at another, when it is not their obligation to do so, more Others start laughing, too. And the first ones to laugh without an obligation are also the ones who get the most of what they want from others. Giving obligations to the Others, Tom learns, is an excellent way of getting._

_Spring. Still 4 years old._

_He is a little older, now. He has finally learned enough Otherness to get things. The Others are enchanted, or so they claim, when he introduces himself to a new employee of the orphanage. He knows that they are not truly Others—they think that he is an Other like them, and if he lives among them, he supposes that he might be one as well, and that perhaps the others learned Otherness faster or better than he did, but then if he is an Other, they cannot be called Others to him. But the habit is hard to break, and Otherly behaviour does not come easily or naturally to him. (Otherness will never be his own, and he is an island). But he knows the words and the actions, and he follows the rules. Because it does not matter that he knows he is not an Other. Because, as long as they think of him as one of them, he will be, since what he thinks clearly doesn't change anything. He still has to follow the same rules. _

_Now the bigger Others clothe him and feed him and allow him to bathe. But the Others are not his, because he has to work to get what he needs from them, and they don't need anything from him._

_He does not like the fact that some Others obviously know and understand more things than he does. Bigger Others clearly know more than the smaller Others, and they never seem to need anything from smaller Others. But the smaller Others—they know less, and understand less, and they need things that only the bigger Others can give them. He overhears that Others that go to school learn things through books, so he resolves to do so, too. Between looking over the orphanage employee's shoulder at story time and looking at the books and papers that those who go to school bring back, Tom learns to read. The smaller Others still ignore him, and he is glad for it._

_December 25, 'Christmas', 1932. 5 years old._

_The smaller Others are asking the bigger ones for presents. It is a deviation from the rules—rules that he did not understand enough in past years to see the peculiarity—so, as always, he seeks to understand more. Apparently this is a day where smaller Others should always get something they want but would not usually get, but the smaller Others—children, he corrects himself—are told that there are no funds for 'orphans like them', because there is not enough money to satisfy everyone and the 'honest people' deserve it more than they do. Tom observes. He isn't sure why there is a day where he shouldn't have to do anything for the things he wants, but then again, neither does he see what makes some Others more deserving than him. He thinks that, maybe, it is because someone made it true by thinking it and making others think so, too—just like the Others think that Tom is one of them, and so now for all intents and purposes he is._

_September 27, 1933. 6 years old._

_He is at school, and—as he expects—school bores him. He has read enough books that he is far beyond his age peers, so he escapes to the library whenever he can. The teachers do not care, because whenever they give him something to do or ask him a question, his performance is exactly what they want. At the end of his day, he steals a newspaper from a teacher's desk on his way out of the classroom when no one is looking, and finds a bench outside to read. He reads about the slight fall in unemployment with the economy's modest recovery because they don't use the gold standard anymore and have more competitive exports. Many of those terms do not mean much to him, and he doesn't understand how they work together, but he will research them during his next visit to the library. And he will understand, because once he does, he will not need to listen to a well-dressed adult tell him about shameful poverty and how Tom is his inferior. That is a rule of the Others that he refuses to let them apply to him._

_When he walks back to the orphanage, some of the neighbourhood children stop him. It seems that, though the children at the orphanage are used to his solitary tendencies and do not bother him, the children at the school demand that he act like them and remain ignorant. They apparently have their own rules, where being polite and smiling at appropriate times is not enough. They call him a teacher's pet (though, frankly, he does not see how his behaviour makes him one). Soon, they are pushing him to the ground and their leader begins to laugh—which gives the others the obligation to laugh, too. And then they leave._

_As days and weeks pass, and Tom refuses to accommodate the boys (he will not stop learning, because knowledge belongs to those who do not need—and he will escape need) the 'bullying' (as a girl with pig-tails calls their actions) gradually escalates. But he is alone and has no way to fight back, and he will not involve an adult because enlisting their help will cost him._

_November 6, 1933._

_The very first time Tom looks into someone's eyes, it is a Monday during recess and their arm has just broken. For a moment he is transfixed by the mind he sees: impressions of fear, memories of past pain, and the lingering thoughts of taunting transforming themselves into a panicked blur. (Perhaps this is what Tom has been missing—maybe if he looks into Others' eyes, he will feel the smiles just as he now feels the tears). Meanwhile, the boy's companions break out into whispers—that Tom is a freak, unnatural, a monster. Similar things have happened around him, before, so he has never thought it unnatural when clothes that he outgrows change to accommodate him, when books that were out of reach jumped into his hands, when snakes come to see him for a chat, or, back when the matron forgot to feed him, when cookies sometimes made their way to him overnight. But this time when it happens… when a boy's arm breaks… he is not alone, and Tom learns that, while he does things when no one is looking and that, likewise, no one else does while he __**is**__ looking, it does not mean that they do these things when he is in fact __**not**__ looking. When the children run to a teacher, he learns that the world doesn't simply do these things for everyone, and that he's the one making them happen, somehow. It is… a revelation._

_January 1934. 7 years old. _

_Tom makes things happen—things that do not normally happen if he, specifically, is not around to will them into being. He makes chairs float, he makes food look invisible to everyone but himself. He practices willing, until he can feel something within him rise up to the occasion and bring his will into being. It becomes as easy as breathing. Just like people can decide what is true by having enough people think it, Tom can decide what is real with the strength of his will—by believing that he can remake the rules that say objects can't just shrink._

_The children at the orphanage see him at it, sometimes. Tom looks into their eyes and learns their fear. For now, their minds tell him that they will avoid him. The children at school have spread the word about the bully's broken arm, and they leave him alone, too. Others cannot do what he does, and it frightens them. What Tom does… it is control, a power that the others do not have._

_Others fear what is beyond their understanding—Tom is a perfect example of that. But Tom does not fear what he does not understand. He knows what fear does; it takes control and power away like they never existed. So he will continue to learn what he does not know, until there is nothing for him to fear—like the adults who do not need because they know more, have more power because they do not need and vice-versa. These theories are a jumble of thoughts, but he concludes one thing: his will-control power is good._

_Summer 1936. 9 years old._

_Some of the older orphans have overcome their fear, because he has never hurt them. He sees it in their eyes, just as he sees the caution in the minds of the matron and other orphanage employees. They will not help him like they help the other children who get hurt, because they once again think that he is odd and they do not understand him, either—they try to forget him like they did before, but he does not let them._

_So when a boy crushes the skull of his favourite snake, Tom retaliates (hurts him, because it will make him fear and never again take away what belongs to Tom) and kills his rabbit._

_Whenever a child tries to hurt him, Tom takes away what they want, too, because it is Tom against the world._

_Summer 1938. 11 years old._

_Albus Dumbledore crashes into his life and destroys his carefully regulated equilibrium with one short sentence. Tom is both enchanted and devastated to learn of the wizarding world. Enchanted because maybe being a wizard is like being a different species to 'muggles', and it's the reason why Tom still can't feel the smiles even after he knows what they feel like from the minds of others, and the other wizards have their own set of rules that will make sense to Tom. Devastated because he is ignorant and powerless and will have to work hard to know how to get what he wants, and because the professor's mind isn't available for perusal which makes him even more ignorant. And when Tom thinks that maybe he isn't an island anymore, he isn't sure whether he is pleased or displeased._

_September 1__st__, 1938. _

_He is on the train to Hogwarts, doing some additional reading. He has already read the required textbooks over the summer, along with some general history to get a feel for the culture. It turns out that the magical world hasn't had an economic depression like the muggles did. Already, wizards seem a little better than muggles. He shares his compartment with another child, but he largely politely ignores the witch and forgets her name when they leave the train._

_He does notice that the only wizard he has run into whose mind he could not access at all was the professor. He wonders why—perhaps it is an indication of magical strength. When he glances into the minds of other first years, he also notices that none of them have even half as much control over their magic. Tom wonders if he might be the only one who can see minds, just like he is the only one who wills things into reality._

_That evening, before proclaiming him a Slytherin, the sorting hat will assure him that the ability is 'natural legilimency', and that it is not the only rare gift Tom has. He gets the feeling that he will be investigating._

_September 2__nd__, 1938._

_The 'pureblood' students in his dormitory call him a 'mudblood'. His surname isn't known among wizards, and he has no ancestry to name. Tom is already aware of what the prejudice means, and is frankly revolted by the thought that he might be related to muggles. But he might not, because maybe the matron's story about his birth is false and they just made up a name for him._

_He sees a ghost for the first time. The encounter opens up a new field of inquiry: the afterlife. In the subsequent months, he will spend some time sneaking around the restricted section of the library when he realizes that the regular books cannot inform him. He wants to know—as always._

_June 1939. 12 years old._

_Tom outclasses everyone on the final exams (theory is easy, and practical magic is will), and yet he is sent back to the muggles with the threat of being expelled if he uses magic over the summer. He asks to stay at Hogwarts—he might continue his scrutiny of the library and keep in magical shape—but is rebuffed. It is almost as if whoever is making the rules wants muggle-raised students to have disadvantages. He is not pleased, not at all._

_September 1939._

_Soon after classes begin, he overhears muggleborns discussing letters from their parents. The war has begun, and Tom wonders—truly wonders—if he will be sent back to muggle London if the conflicts bring danger to Britain. _

_He voraciously latches on to the library and stumbles upon an obscure tome that tells him about that second gift the sorting hat mentioned: he is a parselmouth. A trait passed down from Salazar Slytherin, all the way to Tom; he isn't born of muggle parents. He latches on to that idea just as tightly as he did to the library, but his true obsession is something else. The Chamber of Secrets. He wants to find it, and Tom always gets what he wants if he tries._

_April 1940. 13 years old._

_He continues breezing through lessons, but his performance has attracted the attention of some upper years. They do not know that he is the Heir of Slytherin, not yet at any rate, because Tom knows the power of a name, and names carry beliefs. And Tom knows that belief can become truth at his command, but that timing and preparation are everything. That is why he has been preparing for this, because he has seen it coming just like he did when the muggle orphans planned to hurt him._

_None of them ever succeeds in bullying Tom (they may have more experience and a bigger repertoire of spells, but he has raw power and cunning), but that is not the point. The point is that the other Slytherins, the ones closer to his age, the ones who already know they cannot best him, see him win; Tom is breaking the rules of hierarchy, and slowly but surely, they will come to fear him even if they do not admit it to themselves. _

_Summer 1940. _

_They send him back to muggle London. His orphanage evacuated to the countryside in June because the government expects a seaborne invasion, and they send him back anyway. They are, by all accounts, knowingly sending him to a probable death. It is not a compliment to wizards that Tom is not surprised. He cannot even use magic without being expelled, not even what he does without his wand because they monitor that, too. That is what Slughorn (whose mental defences are surprisingly present, as he discovers one day) says, and the professor is so besotted with Tom that he would never lie to him for the sake of protecting a few worthless muggles. He is thus left to fend for himself, defenceless; he will sneak into the orphanage building for shelter and steal for sustenance with no magic to bail him out of trouble._

_August 23._

_There is a bombing on the outskirts of London, not too far from the orphanage building where he is sleeping. It is the ground's vibrations and the deafening sound of the explosion that wake him, but it is the screams that keep him awake. That night, Tom thinks he might understand the ghosts for being afraid, because he is troubled by what might happen if he were to die in a raid. He resolves to take his studies of the afterlife more seriously, because he hasn't found much to satisfy him but is sure there must be an answer somewhere, since there always is._

_September._

_By the time school begins, he is filthy and exhausted and emaciated. He attracts stares, and every time he defiantly matches them, he sees the disgust in their minds, their thoughts about his inferiority and barbarism as a 'mudblood'. A few of the seventh year Slytherins with nascent shields around their minds make it clear that he isn't welcome in the common room when he heads to the showers immediately after the opening feast, but he makes it even clearer that they are weak._

_Soon enough, he hears about the Blitz beginning and the mounting death toll. He could have been among the corpses if the attack had started earlier. His magical strength would have done nothing to save him had he been at the wrong place at the wrong time, and now it irks him more that he still does not know what it is that the ghosts are avoiding—though he is starting to be quite certain that it is nothing good._

_February 1941. 14 years old._

_He has had enough of being called a mudblood when he clearly is not. It is his name, he knows, that causes the problem. So he remakes it, changes it into something that suits what he wants—and vows to make it real. And if being pureblood means to hate mudbloods and half-bloods, he will._

_October 1941._

_Someone asks him if he's ever been in love with anyone. He does not understand that emotion even when he takes it from the minds of others, and he hates that they give the same name to many different things that are just as superfluous as one another. He says no, and makes sure no one ever asks him again._

_Spring 1942. 15 years old._

_He comes to the realization that nothing can tells him what comes after death, but he still refuses to ever go into something uninformed, because the unknown is his fear if he has one at all. So instead of solving the mystery, he will make sure that he is never confronted with it. He begins researching._

_Fall 1943. 16 years old. _

_He stumbles upon an obscure reference—'horcrux'—in an old book. He thinks it might be what he is looking for, so he works his charm on Slughorn._

_Spring._

_He finds the Chamber of Secrets in the place he least expected, which is why it has taken him this long to find it. One day a girl accidentally dies, but he is unbothered except for the fact that he ends up having to frame someone to make sure Hogwarts does not close._

_Summer 1943. _

_He completes the diary. When he tears his soul apart, it hurts more than he imagines the Cruciatus curse hurts, like he is losing himself and becoming something else entirely in the process. But when it is done, he feels nothing. So he tells himself that it wasn't painful and that he didn't lose anything—and that makes it true, because the line between belief (will) and truth is so thin he can't even see it anymore._

_He carries on with his plans, and from now on nothing else matters but that single-minded determination._

_Summer 1944. 17 years old. _

_He is staring down at the corpse of a muggle named Tom Riddle. Not his father, because he has no relationship with muggles._

_June 1945. 18 years old._

_He graduates with the highest honours—Head Boy, Medal for Magical Merit, valedictorian. The Slytherins know who he is, and they will follow him when the time comes. He looks down at them from the podium while he gives his speech, and he hides his contempt as he thinks ahead—of how he will obtain more artefacts to use as horcruxes, of how he can deepen his knowledge of the dark arts._

_Winter 1952._

_He is learning necromancy from unsavoury individuals. It is an interesting subject, but he is attracted to its uses rather than to the theory. He will be able to raise an army of inferi, when he needs to._

_1970._

_Corpses at his feet, again. It is… so easy. He follows no rules but his own, has no power above his own and no great unknown giving him the obligation to fear._

_1980._

_A prophecy will not dictate his future. He viciously casts the cruciatus on Severus Snape._

_(July 31, 1980)._

_Change, difference. No other distinctions; a swirl of a world that is as much him as he is it._

_(May 1980)._

_Mother, mother always brings good. Sometimes he feels unpleasant, but she always stops it. He sees clearly enough to see her smile and his muscles imitate hers and it feels good and warm, too._

_October 31, 1981._

_He points his wand at the child from the prophecy and says the words._

_Green light coming at him and pain, pain, pain—_

_The curse bounces back but he has no time to duck and it hits him in the chest and he knows this ripping feeling from somewhere and then—_

* * *

It takes the amorphous Voldemort/Harry soul-thing a few hours to sort through both sets of experiences and adjust to the merge with some degree of decency. Even as thoroughly messed up as he is, he somehow (by the skin of his teeth, really) manages to make it all—the vastly different sets of memories, feelings and thought patterns—fit together into a consistent whole. Organizing everything as part of a single whole, rather than as separate wholes (which is what the occlumency inadvertently did before the loss of consciousness), helps minimize the confusion in his mind a great deal.

Luckily, things like that are possible for the paragon of magical might and superiority that he is. (Ah, pride—how many lesser wizards has it felled?)

When the confusion finally does end, it gives way to a headache. Merlin, _no_. It is the mother of all migraines, not a mere headache.

Voldemort/Harry keeps his eyes closed to let it fade. At least now the two souls are properly organized, with their experiences meshed together… though he does disdain having a body this young.

He finds it difficult to define himself. Many of the things he has learned as Tom and put into practice as Voldemort no longer apply because of what he has experienced as Harry—those brief flashes of warmth and trust and well-being render many of Voldemort's understandings obsolete if not entirely meaningless. But then, even though he is not Voldemort, he is even less Harry Potter. The toddler, unlike Voldemort, has never had the chance to develop much of an awareness before he became… well… Voldemort/Harry.

Perhaps he is Tom starting over again with the advantage of a stable home and sanity (both of which he attributes to the influence of Harry's soul) along with a big head start in knowledge and life experience (enough to avoid the unforgiveable imbecility of making horcruxes). Truly, he doesn't know _what_ he was thinking as Tom when he made horcruxes, but he is glad for the merge—hindsight makes it obvious that horcruxes precipitated Voldemort's insanity and impulsivity, not that his grasp on reality was ever particularly strong.

He concludes to himself that he is nameless, of indeterminate mental age, and plagued by the constraints of his current physical age. Not the best self-diagnosis to receive, or the most pleasing one, but at least he is not a horcrux anymore since the merge produced an entirely different soul that does not tie Voldemort to life.

When, for lack of a better thing to do (the migraine from hell has yet to abate, so he really does not want light to hit his eyes while he looks around), his thoughts drift to what happened the previous evening, he is more than tempted to deny that it has ever happened. Particularly upon revisiting the overly emotional thought process he has exhibited. He settles for blaming it all on his infantile body; no one whose rooting reflex disappeared less than a year ago can rightfully be expected to think straight, so he is of the opinion that it is a wonder he was even able to formulate the thoughts that led to those dreadful emotional reactions.

Come to think of it, he considers himself lucky that Dumbledore perpetually insists on the assumption of innocence, because he isn't certain that he would have taken it lightly if an infant started creating destructive acid blobs with a dark lord's wand—particularly given the circumstances and Voldemort's tendency to dabble in magic he really, really shouldn't touch.

Well, he has said it before, and he will say it again: the old goat is completely and indubitably insane.

Nevertheless, aside from rants about Dumbledore, it remains that, to the world (and to said old man), he will be Harry James Potter, one year old, nauseatingly adorable, adorably polite, and politely inoffensive (as he sees it, the wizarding population is stupid enough that they might find him intimidating—and thus, rude—if they thought he was able to use his magical power and political clout), and commonly known as whatever moniker they made up for him, destroyer of He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named. It is, to say the least, not exactly congruent with his self-evaluation. It is slightly annoying to think of the act he will have to put up, especially in his youth.

On that note of his musings, he notices the sound of dragged footsteps uncomfortably close to wherever he is.

His eyes snap open in surprise.

Bright, glaring, _painful_ morning sunlight greets him.

And of course this body has very little motor control and he is unable to stop the resulting wails even as his eyes shut again. But then arms wrap around him and he is picked up.

He recognizes Black's voice from his whispered words of comfort, and—whether it's the absence of the aversive stimulus or the bouncing movements the man makes—he is able to stop howling. He finds the entire process embarrassing, and some part of him wonders _why_ he must be subjected to the indignity of being held by Black _again_, but something in him can't help but find it not entirely uncomfortable.

He lashes out at the feeling and makes it go away.

When his captor notices that he has calmed, he speaks a little more clearly.

"Shh Harry, everything's going to be fine, everything's going to be just fine. We'll be alright you and me," his voice cracks, and Voldemort/Harry wonders whether Black is trying to convince himself, "and we'll manage and we'll make Ja—James and Lily proud and—"

And then the man starts sobbing.

On him.

_Again_.

And, to his dismay, it does not look like he will stop anytime soon. If anything, he is getting worse and having a nervous breakdown, because Black sinks to his knees and holds Voldemort/Harry so close it impedes his ability to breathe.

This is not helping with the migraine.

Voldemort/Harry is saved from attempting an intervention when someone slams what he assumes is the main door open, and noisily barges into wherever they are.

… Weren't they supposed to be under a Fidelius charm? He is surprised that the old coot has not already set it up.

"Sirius! I'm back! …Sirius, where…?"

Well, the fact that this unknown male visitor was there before explains the vague voices he thinks he heard earlier that morning, and how this person knows where they are.

He hears footsteps as the visitor nears the room they are in, and before he can attempt to extricate his face from Black's chest to identify the man…

"There you are—_What_ _on Earth do you think you're doing_?! Harry's asphyxiating!"

And then _another_ pair of arms wraps around him and frees him from Black's clutches. Finally, he can breathe properly! He shoots a glance up to see the face of his liberator and vaguely recognizes him as the one Harry knows as 'Moony'—he hazards a guess and goes with the assumption that this is Remus Lupin, James Potter's werewolf charity case, as Pettigrew characterized him.

Voldemort/Harry's attention is brought back to his new godfather when the latter somehow manages to look even more miserable as he sobs a stream of barely intelligible apologies—for being a bad guardian to Harry, for not trusting Lupin, for steering the Potters into the decision that killed them...

Lupin, whose eyes are already graced with dark circles, looks even more tired when the tension seeps out of his muscles and he looks at Black pityingly before interrupting him.

"Padfoot, stop… it—it wasn't your fault. You know that. Don't—" he pauses and composes himself, "don't spend all of your energy on blaming yourself for something no one can change when you still have someone that _needs_ you."

Voldemort/Harry (he _is _reluctant to refer to himself as 'Harry', since it really isn't quite him) is astonished at the contrast between the two men. It is clear, with just one look past the amber eyes to brush against his mind, that the werewolf is no less distraught than his friend, but whereas the latter allows himself to drown in his sorrow to the point of dysfunction, the former keeps himself composed and looks to the future. It is impressive, but then again, he has already had much experience with doing just that—one does not survive being bitten by a werewolf in early childhood and become a functional individual without great strength of character. Greyback and his pack illustrate that point. Voldemort/Harry thinks that he might grow to respect this 'Moony' person, especially since it looks like he will be the only sane company he gets.

Black ceases his visual fixation at the floor, and looks up at Lupin, then at his godson. Tears well up in his eyes again, but he picks himself up from his place on the ground and gives a feeble agreement.

"I know. I know that, but—it's just—everything keeps reminding me, and then—I—I just… Merlin, Remus, it's just—_I don't know what I'm doing_, and I'll be a horrible guardian and I'll fail Harry just like I failed Lily and James and they'll never forgive me and I'll never be able to do this alone but I'll have to because Dumbledore said everyone's going to be after Harry and—and—"

Thankfully, Lupin does them all a favour and interrupts once again.

"Sirius…" he moves forward and tentatively rests his free hand on Black's arm, "Don't panic, alright? If—if you don't mind me too much, maybe I'll move in with you, actually maybe it's best if I do, I'll help around and we'll figure it out. You won't fail Harry." He gives a small reassuring smile, "After all, I'll stop you from doing anything too disastrous, right? So I'll stay."

Voldemort/Harry's respect for Lupin goes up another notch: he does not need to worry that Black will do something extremely stupid that ends up accidentally killing him.

Black looks at Lupin like he just saved him from being kissed by a dementor just as Voldemort/Harry is unpleasantly reminded that his young body affords him no control over its natural needs.

His eyes grow large with horror. He (well, a part of him) has been the single most feared dark lord in _centuries_, and the _only_ one whose name is so feared that most people do not dare say it and flinch upon hearing it. He _does not_ want a pair of youngsters humiliatingly changing his nappies. Ever.

He attempts to direct his magic fix that particular quandary before either of the men becomes aware of his dilemma (which is a foolish endeavour, as neither of them is quite ignorant enough not to check the nappy after a while). Unfortunately, while he does succeed in banishing the mess without losing control of his magic—it is, after all, nothing complicated even without a wand—he is not quick enough to fool Lupin's nose.

"Er… Sirius?"

"Yeah?"

"When's the last time you changed Harry's nappy?"

The two stare at each other and manage to look as horrified as Voldemort/Harry is feeling. It has apparently dawned on them that they do not, in fact, have any clue about taking care of a toddler.

* * *

End Note: I've taken some liberties with the timeline because the "50 years ago" dates are awfully iffy. I tried to make Tom's childhood reflect his probable attachment disorder (from anonymous and inconsistent caregivers) as opposed to Harry's strong background of trust and assurance. There's also genetics/biology playing a role, with Tom having difficulty with the innate facial expressions (possibly trouble with the amygdala as a neurological basis for psychopathy--may be related to the inbreeding of the Gaunts) and Harry's mirror neuron feedback system working just fine in its entirety. Obviously the biological factor will apply to "Voldemort/Harry" since he is in Harry's body rather than Tom's. There are also substantial blanks in the memories after Tom begins making horcruxes, but that is intended to reflect how he loses whatever grasp he had on reality. Do tell me any of your suggestions to make this chapter better, because I'm not sure I've succeeded in portraying everyone accurately.


End file.
